A Quizzical Endeavour
by Twisted Biscuit
Summary: After You Know Who's return, shortly before the permanent removal of Professor Umbridge, the Ministry attempt to promote House Unity. They do so in the only way they know how: With paperwork. Which should go brilliantly, of course...
1. Reflection

**Disclaimer:** By writing this piece I am making no claim to ownership of Harry Potter, or associated characters and merchandise. I mean, if I were going to claim ownership of Harry Potter, I'd start by snagging a couple million quid, not by writing this for free on the internet. I mean honestly.  
**Author's Note:** Yes I know there are other things I should be posting, but I had to do seven personality tests today and I felt the need to write about it. Ergo: Quiz-based fun for all the Hogwarts students. I also firmly believe that Crabbe is a deeply insightful genius in his spare time, a belief which makes itself known later on. You have been warned. The Ministry's "interesting results" will be revealed tomorrow.

* * *

"Talking is not permitted. You may not leave your seats. If you get stuck on a question, move ahead with the paper and go back to it later. No questions may be left unanswered. You have two hours. After that I will come back and collect your answers." and with those fateful words, the Examiner left the Great Hall.

Everyone looked around nervously upon his departure. Every student, from first year to seventh year, was crowded into the Great Hall and sat at their House Tables, which usually only occurred at mealtimes. But now, there was no food or plates laid out for them. There was only a question paper, an answer paper and a basic crow quill provided, with pots of black ink dotted along the table. It would have been quite odd anyway, but the number of purple-swathed Ministry personnel that patrolled the room made it about fifty-times stranger.

The Ministry, in all it's wisdom, had decided that, in light of Voldemort's return and everything, House Unity was important. Continuing in that same theme, the Ministry had taken it upon themselves to bring the houses closer together by showing them all just how similar they really were. They hoped to do this by giving them these tests and revealing the more interesting results for all to see, clearly demonstrating the students invariable sameness and encouraging them to gather together in peace, love and harmony and avoid being slaughtered by evil wizard with a snake fetish. As several students had, rather vociferously, pointed out: If they were all really that similar then the Sorting Hat wouldn't have put them in different Houses. It was really rather ironic when you considered that each and every house had come to this conclusion on their own, but that was hardly the point. The Ministry had, nonetheless, refused to listen to such logic and basically told them that they were doing the damned tests whether they liked it or not.

Nervously, the entire Great Hall glanced around once more, before flicking open their question papers and reading question one…

- - -

"What is your favourite colour?" Pansy Parkinson rolled her eyes. What sort of stupid question was that? Of course she was going to say green. She was in Slytherin, after all. What other colour could she, in good conscience, mark down? She sure as hell wasn't writing red. Nor was she writing purple even if it was kind of pretty… With a barely concealed growl she marked down her answer "All right… Question two…"

- - -

"Do you consider yourself to be a role model? Uh…" Neville Longbottom glared at the paper. How was he supposed to know if he was a role model? Who was he supposed to be a role model to, in order to be considered a role model? He didn't, for example, consider himself Malfoy's role model. Nor most other people. He'd done brave things, he supposed. And he'd joined Dumbledore's Army the previous year, which was pretty impressive. But he'd sort of done ot by accident rather than on purpose. He'd stumbled into it, too afraid of Hermione to do anything else. He was hardly a role model… not that he really knew what made a role model. But he was fairly certain that role models didn't keep falling through invisible steps. His quill hovered between Yes and No before he finally sighed and constructed another box on the page labelled, 'Don't know'. He checked it and continued with a small shrug. "Question three…"

- - -

"If you were an animal, what animal do you think you would be?" Ginny Weasley felt her brow wrinkle in confusion. "Well not a snake, that's for sure." she muttered. She still had issues with snakes. Rather a lot of issues. But it was the only animal she seemed capable of considering at that particular moment. Like she had a mental block or something.

Ginny took a deep breath and cleared her head. She was taking this too seriously. She wasn't a snake, badger, lion or any type of bird. So that ruled out the Hogwarts creatures. She ran through a list of animals in her head but none seemed quite right. She looked around her as though hoping for inspiration. All she got was Ron sitting next to her staring blankly at his page. His page which, she noticed, was at least three ahead of hers. Either he was doing much better than she was or he was skipping a lot more questions. Either way, Ginny figured she'd better get a move on.

Michael Corner had told her once that she looked like a cat. Actually, a lot of people had told her that she looked like a cat. So she supposed she could mark down cat, but that didn't seem right somehow. People taunting her with string just didn't seem very likely to happen. Besides, if she was going to be an animal she'd rather be a wild animal. Something that people were afraid of, that had a little bite… Ginny grinned and marked down Wild Cat.

"Okay…" she muttered. "Question four…"

- - -

"If you were trapped on a desert island what are the three items you would take with you to amuse yourself? What the…" Hannah Abbot groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. How on Earth would she know?

If she were going to have to opportunity to pick three items to amuse herself them surely she'd have the opportunity to stay off the blasted thing in the first place, wouldn't she? Unless some diabolical scheme was constructed by Death Eaters to land her on a desert island with the opportunity to pick three random items. Even then, she could Apparate off. Or swim out far enough to Apparate if there was an Anti-Apparition jinx on the area. Or… kill herself with a coconut or something rather than just hang around for eternity with only three things to amuse her. Muttering slightly under her breath, she realised that ten minutes had already gone and she had one hundred and forty six questions left to go. She wrote down 'fully-functioning motor boat, cooler full of chilled drinks and fresh food, and a wand', before moving on. "Question five…"

- - -

"Part A- Do you believe in soul mates? Part B- Do you think you have a soul mate?" Jack Sloper frowned. How the hell did he know? He'd never sat down and considered it. Did he really believe that there was one person he was destined to spend the rest of eternity with, forever and always? Now that he thought about it, it sounded faintly sinister. Like a binding magical contract or something.

He had a sudden image in his head of standing in front of a Minister with a strangely faceless girl and getting married in front of all his friends. The Minister took out a large set of glowing, unbreakable shackles and clamped them down around his and his bride's wrists. The phrase "Till Death Do You Part" echoed around in his brain, followed by malevolent cackling. He turned to look at his faceless bride, searching for comfort and reassurance, only to see her replaced by the looming figure of a Dementor. It took a deep, rattling breath before lowering it's hood and swooping down upon him to suck out his very soul, with a bouquet of flowers still ridiculously clasped in it's spindly fingers…

Jack shuddered. "Part A- No. Part B- God I hope not." he wrote sincerely. "Right. Question six…"

- - -

Eleanor Branstone re-read the question several times. "Are you a cat person or a dog person?"

It seemed like a simple question, but it wasn't. She was a neither person. Cats unnerved her. They were always staring at her like they saw right through her, or like they expected her to be serving them better. Like they were rulers from on high or something, and were very disappointed with what they saw. Dogs, on the other hand, were so unbelievably cheerful and loyal and adoring that they made Eleanor feel unworthy, almost. She didn't like it.

Staring at the page she wrote, "I'm a pig person."

Her friend Owen Cauldwell looked over her shoulder at the page. He raised his eyebrows. "You freak." he told her candidly.

Eleanor bristled. "Winston Churchill said that dogs look up to us, while cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals. I agree with him."

Owen shook his head despairingly. "You're barking."

"No." Eleanor corrected him shortly. "I'm oinking. Question Seven…"

- - -

"What is your favourite type of jam?" Luna Lovegood paused with her quill held thoughtfully above the page. It was a good question.

She'd found the other questions somewhat lacking but that one was excellent. After all, anyone who wrote down strawberry was obviously under the influences of the mind-altering Kinkernuffles and couldn't be wholly trusted. Similarly, anyone who said gooseberry jam was their favourite had very bad taste and should be completely ignored just because of that. After a few moments debate Luna wrote down "raspberry jam" and moved on.

- - -

"Question number nine… What is your favourite kitchen utensil and why?" Seamus Finnegan almost felt his eyes pop out of his head in horror. He didn't have a favourite kitchen utensil. Did _anyone_ have a favourite kitchen utensil? Was he in some way peculiar because he didn't have an unnatural attachment to a garlic crusher or something? When he was a kid he'd pretended that his grandfather's bottle opener was a man drowning at sea. Maybe that was his favourite kitchen utensil. But… well he couldn't put the reason 'It resembles an innocent man gasping for air as the waves pull him under to his watery doom' could he? No, he couldn't. But he could put 'reminds me of my grandfather'. Yep. That'd work. Moving swiftly on…

- - -

"Question number ten… Do you like shrubs?" Ron cringed and threw his head backwards so that it connected solidly with the back of his chair. The resulting thud drew quite a few startled looks from around the hall but he hardly noticed.

This was ridiculous, he thought. Who in their right mind had any particularly strong feelings about shrubs? Was there someone around him who was currently writing a bitter diatribe against topiaries? Or perhaps someone who was utterly delighted at the very thought of a bramble bush and was currently relishing the joy and happiness it brought them. If there someone of either type then Ron wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be attending Hogwarts much longer, just in case he ever came across the nutter in question. He looked back at the page and saw the Yes and No boxes there together. With a small sigh he randomly picked one as his answer and looked at the next question, hoping that they would somehow start to make sense in the near future.

- - -

"Question number thirteen." Ernie Macmillan murmured to himself. "If you could be any inanimate object for the day, what would you be?" he screwed up his face in concentration and thought about it. If he were being completely honest, he would probably say the mirror in the girl's showers. But then he'd have to watch Nicolette Midgen naked, so perhaps not.

He wouldn't want to be anything that anyone sat on, that was for sure. Just thinking about someone sitting on top of him, completely disregarding him and treating him like… Ernie looked down nervously at the bench he sat on. Poor bench, he thought. That bench had at least a hundred people sitting on it. It was a very poorly treated bench. He wondered vaguely when last it had been cleaned or polished. Some inconsiderate git had even carved graffiti into it. 'S.B. luvs S.S. 4eva' Ernie frowned. SB? Susan Bones? But that couldn't be, because who with the initials S.S. could Susan possibly have a crush on? Sammy Summerby? No, couldn't be him, she called him a Quidditch obsessed moron. Sherlock Stebbins? Probably not. He was obnoxious. Stan Shunpike? Ernie snorted. That was laughable. Salazar Slytherin? Hmm. Despite how interesting the relationship would no doubt be, he doubted it. Severus Snape?

…

Ernie felt his eyes widen. Susan had a crush on Snape? No. Couldn't be. Couldn't possibly be. He glanced down to where Susan was sitting, scratching away at her answer paper with a perfectly comfortable expression on her face. Well, perhaps not comfortable, but certainly not the expression that a sick and perverted would wear. Not the expression that someone who had… had… _those_ thoughts about Snape would wear. No. Not Susan. Couldn't be Susan. It was probably… er… Sirius Black. Yes. That was it. Sirius Black had a crush on Snape. Back at school the two of them had a blistering affair or something. Ernie felt his eyes widen in horror as about a hundred images danced through his mind, each of them more depraved than the last.

By the time Snape danced through his mind in a French maid's costume he was seriously considering beating himself to death against the bench upon which he sat. As the consideration entered his mind he remembered the question he had been trying to answer when that depravity had attacked him. Blinking repeatedly in an attempt to clear the mental pictures, he jotted down that he would be a bench.

After all, he reasoned, no matter what ill-treatment a bench had to suffer, at least it didn't think things like _that_. He read on, hoping desperately to distract himself.

- - -

"Seventeen. Would you rather be a troll or a goblin?" Gregory Goyle read aloud. He glanced over at Draco for guidance but Draco was scribbling away with a bored expression, completely oblivious to Goyle's plight. He scratched his chin with a quill.

Which would he rather be? Goblins were smart, he supposed. And tricky. And well-respected. But then Trolls were strong and defended themselves. Nobody messed with a troll. A troll had never had to have a rebellion to get treated right, that was for sure. Then again, if a troll was getting treated badly it was probably too stupid to realise it. So which would he rather be?

He sighed and marked down Goblin. He'd been compared to a troll for most of his life, after all, so he supposed he may as well go with the option he'd never tried before.

- - -

"Question twenty two. If you were out walking in the wilderness and you came across a cave, would you explore it?" Marietta Edgecomb stared at the paper like it was particularly moronic slug.

What a stupid question! Of course not. Who knows what could be in there? It could have bats, or rats, or dangerous creatures. Or slippery, mould-covered rocks which you could slip on and kill yourself. Even if it didn't it would probably cave in or something. Marietta had a bad history with such things. Things that other people thought were just fun and exciting, but perfectly safe, somehow always ended badly for her.

Skating on the lake with Cho in fourth year? She spent the whole afternoon talking to Cedric Diggory and explaining what ice-skating was, while Marietta had fallen through the ice and ended up in the Hospital Wing. Camping with her Uncle Kenneth in the Cotswalds? She'd broken her leg. Taking her sister's pet poodle out to the park in London? The horrid little mutt had ended up in a fight with an Alsatian, had its throat ripped out and Marietta had been grounded for three months. Completely ridiculous. Besides, it wasn't as though her sister wanted her around the house after that; every time she'd laid eyes on her for a month afterwards she'd burst into tears about Fifi.

Slightly annoyed that there wasn't an answer more emphatic than "no" available, Marietta answered the question and moved on, shaking her head.

- - -

"Question twenty-nine: Truth or dare?" Cormac McLaggen didn't even pause as he scrawled down dare. Though later he wondered if he should have been more specific, and perhaps given examples…

- - -

"Question thirty-five. In your opinion, what is the most destructive thing that one wizard could do to another human being and why? (Bearing in mind that in this instance the word Wizard refers not just to male magical human beings but to…) Urgh." Crabbe rolled his eyes at the Ministry disclaimer and went back to re-read the question. "What is the most destructive thing one wizard could do to another human being?" he murmured to himself.

The obvious answer would be Avada Kedavra. It didn't really get much more destructive than snuffing someone else's life out. Or did it? He wondered. Crabbe knew there were plenty of ways to kill people. Sure, the Killing Curse was the most effective and involved the least effort, but there were still loads more ways. Levitation Charms could kill people after all; you could float a sword through them or drop a piano on them or something, and they still taught that to First Years. A summoning charm could be deadly as well. You could summon someone's heart out, or if you were feeling vindictive he supposed you could summon their kneecaps out. Hell, Crabbe thought with disdain, even muggles killed each other. Some of them could do it nearly instantly too, from what he'd heard. No. Death definitely wasn't it.

What about the other Unforgivable curses, he thought. Surely one of them? The was the Cruciatus Curse, which could torture people into insanity for heaven's sake. It could fracture your mind, destroy your spirit, and wear down your very soul, if applied properly. Or, alternatively, it could cause you a bit of pain and leave you unscathed. For evidence of such usage, see Harry Potter, he thought sarcastically. Imperius? It certainly scared him. Being a prisoner in one's own mind was something he didn't want to think about. When Moody, or rather the nutcase pretending to be Moody, had done it to him last year, he had felt completely helpless. He'd also felt rather sore after those gymnastics he'd had to do, but pain he could deal with. It was the fact that throughout the entire episode, he had been completely certain that his life could be thrown away and that he could do absolutely nothing to prevent it.

Even with Avada Kedavra you could duck, for God's sake. True, that was pretty much all you could do, but still. With Imperius you were nothing more than a puppet. But then, you could fight that too. By the time Moody was done with them, the entire fourth year had started fighting it off… There had to be something. Something to do with loss of control. He screwed up his face and thought about all the Defence Against the Dark Arts Classes he'd ever had. Nothing in them had really terrified him. Had Snape been teaching the class, he was fairly certain it would be a different story… Crabbe had a sudden inspiration. Snape. Potions. Snape said that almost anything could be done with a potion, including some truly horrific things that couldn't be done any other way… But what was the very worst?

"_Imagine no control. Your thoughts, your feelings, your very essence, all centred on one idea from which you cannot escape. Your entire existence becomes fixated upon this one thing and there is nothing you can do to prevent it."_ he pictured Snape telling the class.

With a shudder, Crabbe wrote down his answer. "Give them a Love Potion. Because…"

- - -

"Question forty-one. Are you a people person, or to you prefer to keep your own company?" Lee Jordan read aloud.

"Shh." Angelina snapped beside him. Lee looked up at her, to see that she was staring straight at one of the Ministry personnel who was walking by them. His beady little eyes were glaring at them suspiciously, as though this test were of overwhelming importance or something.

As his purple bedecked back retreated down the hall, Lee read the question out again in an undertone. He turned to Angelina. "What if I'm a people person who keeps his own company by default, owing to the fact that his two best mates rode off into the sunset in an overly dramatic fashion some months ago?" he asked her.

Angelina shrugged. "So mark 'none of the above'." she suggested, frowning at her own paper.

"Well there's no option for none of the above." he said. "That possibility would obviously introduce too many variables into their empty little heads, resulting in a cataclysmic mind implosion." he put down his quill angrily. "I hate this."

Angelina smiled understandingly at him. "We all do." she assured him. "Just mark down people person and move on. It's not like anyone really cares what you put."

Lee glared at one of the invigilators. "That's not the point." he muttered.

"Oh. So the point is that you miss Fred and George." she said confidently. Lee's glare switched to her.

"I do not."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do-"

"Is there a problem here?" A female Ministry worker asked, swooping down on them in a manner that would have made McGonagall proud.

"No." Both Lee and Angelina responded, looks of pure innocence on their faces.

"Well if that's the case, I would request that you two keep this… this flirtatious behaviour, for another time." the woman said, before going off to scold a Hufflepuff.

Lee and Angelina stared after her in shock.

"We weren't being flirtatious." both hissed simultaneously.

Lee felt a flush rise up in his cheeks while Angelina glared at him. He returned quickly to his paper. Both went back to answering questions with sudden enthusiasm.

- - -

"Question Fifty nine. In times of emotional upheaval do you prefer to be by yourself or with others?" Cho read quietly to herself. She thought about it seriously.

She came from a large family. Sure, she was an only child, but she had innumerable cousins and aunts and uncles and god-knew-what else. When her father had left them, her mother had run immediately back to the bosom of her family. She said that in times of need you could always rely on your family and friends to make you feel better. Cho couldn't tell her family about Cedric's death, since they were muggles, and her friends had all basically agreed that Harry Potter had probably killed him and stopped talking to her. Except Marietta. Who'd betrayed her to Umbridge.

A slightly stubborn look took up residence on her face as Cho marked down "By myself."

- - -

"Question Eighty Three. Imagine yourself in Azkaban. Why are you there? What crime did you commit?" Theodore Nott read.

It was really two questions. To the casual observer the second one looked like a reiteration of the first one, but it wasn't. If he imagined himself in Azkaban. The howling wind, the air of impenetrable misery, the grossly substandard food… Why was he there? Because he clearly hadn't been careful enough when committing whatever crime it was that had been committed to land him there. If he had been careful enough, then the Ministry never would have caught him and it wouldn't even be an issue. All the people who landed in Azkaban had done so because they hadn't been careful enough when they were caught.

Take the Death Eaters at the Department of Mysteries, for example. His own father had been stunned early on by Hermione Granger (an insult in itself. Not because she was a Gryffindor, or a muggle-born, or even Harry Potter's friend, but just because being stunned so early was always humiliating). Yet, even despite this fact, he had kept his mask on throughout the confrontation in the Ministry. He had known the risk of the Anti-Apparation jinx and had brought an emergency portkey just in case. He didn't know Dumbledore would be there. He didn't even suspect Dumbledore would be there. Nor those adult friends of Potter's who'd turned up. But he'd planned ahead, all the same. The act of keeping a cool head and planning for every eventuality, meant that you need never worry about getting caught.

So if he were in Azkaban, it would be as a direct result of his own foolishness. Simple as that. But what crime he committed? That was a tricky one. What crime could he possibly be driven to that would cause him to lose his calm completely? It would have to be something that struck him in a weak spot. Everyone had a weak spot, and most people's weak spot was ridiculously apparent to everyone save themselves. Even the Dark Lord had an Achilles' Heel. Voldemort's weak spot, so far as Theo could see, was his pride. Potter's weak spot was his friends. Dumbledore's weak spot was his students. Malfoy's weak spot was his family. Of the four of them, Theo could relate to Malfoy the most.

Theo's family was his weak spot. Hurt them and he might just lose his cool. It was more likely that he would seethe with icy rage and plot your terrible, painful death for years and years until you least expected it. But there was a slight possibility he could go the other way. So… killing his father's killer? Doubtful. Theo had long since resigned himself to the likelihood of his father's death. His mother's killer? Nope. He didn't think so. His mother, though he loved her, was hardly what one would call integral to his life. She was always working on a new spell or another, trying to figure out this, that, or the next thing. She was a magical developer, she lived off her inheritance, and she had little time for Theodore or his father anymore. Due, in no small part, to his father's renewed participation in the Dark Lord's service. His little sister's killer?

Theo felt his hand clench around his quill just thinking about it. After a moment he looked down at his white-knuckled grip on the black quill with a feeling more akin to surprise than aggression. The thought, the mere thought, of anyone touching Elisa had him making fists like some sort of barbarian. Theo thought over the question again in his mind.

Why was he in Azkaban? Because he had found someone who had hurt his little sister and had ripped them limb from limb. Be they Ministry, be they Death Eater, be they Merlin himself, he would kill them on the spot and do so in the most painful and deliberate manner known to him.

He jotted down an abridged version of that answer and moved on with insouciance.

- - -

"Question One Hundred." Padma read quietly. "Do you think you have a good memory?"

_I forget_, she scribbled down; even sounding sarcastic in her head.

Her friend Mandy Brocklehurst looked down at the answer. She sighed. "You're not taking this seriously Padma." she said darkly, as though this were some great tragedy akin to the Titanic, only less well reported.

Padma raised her eyebrows at her. "Are you?"

"Of course. It's a test."

"It's a waste of time."

"It's still a test."

"Mandy, last year I walked down into the dungeons after accidentally leaving my book bag in the Potions classroom." Padma said patiently. "I took a wrong turn and walked in on Millicent Bulstrode trying to teach Gregory Goyle how to dance. It was the blind leading the blind. I swore to myself then and there that it was the biggest waste of time I had ever witnessed. This test has surpassed it." she declared. "By quite a margin as well."

Mandy rolled her eyes, while on the other side of her Padma heard Su Li and Lisa Turpin giggling quietly at her story. After a moment of maintaining a disapproving scowl, Mandy turned back to her test. Padma shook her head, mentally resigning herself to the fact that the girl was a lost cause.

She leant into the middle of the table, re-inked her quill and moved on with the test.

- - -

At the Gryffindor table, Parvati Patil was having similar trouble keeping her answers serious. "Question one hundred and one. Have you ever been known to procrastinate?"

_I'll tell you later_. She wrote carelessly. Lavender looked at her with surprise. Parvati stared defiantly back and after a moment Lavender grinned, shrugged and went back to her own test. It was so nice having understanding and accepting friends, Parvati thought. She glanced up at the clock. They had twenty-five minutes left.

- - -

"One hundred and eleven. Would you rather have too much of responsibility, or none at all?" Susan Bones read. She had to read it about eight times before the question actually penetrated her brain. Her brain which was, at that exact moment, turning to mush. She could have been doing something useful with her time, she thought bitterly. She could have been revising potions, or reading a classic novel, or… or… hell, she could've been playing with her hair. But this was ridiculous.

She re-read the question one last time. Too much responsibility or none at all? Her immediate answer would be none at all, but that didn't seem quite right. No responsibility meant no power or control. If she had no responsibility then she would have no control, which would mean someone else had control over her which was something she doubted she could cope with. And how much was too much, anyway? Was it an overwhelming amount? Because anything that initially seemed overwhelming could usually be broken down into amounts that were… well… whelming. Manageable. She would rather have control and the burden that went with it, than be a carefree slave.

She marked down her answer, then raised her head to glance around and see if anyone else had finished. From the looks of things nobody had, though Ernie was, for some reason, staring at her suspiciously. Slightly unnerved, Susan turned back to her work.

- - -

"Question one hundred and twenty six, Would you rather be blind or deaf?" Blaise read to himself. He smiled and began pondering it. He liked this quiz. The self-reflection was nothing short of amusing, and the difficulty everyone else seemed to be having with it was, frankly, hysterical. His answers had surprised himself on a few occasions, either because he'd never considered the question before or because the answer was quite different to what he thought it would be.

This was a question he'd never thought of before. Blind or deaf? Hearing was nice. He liked hearing things. Like music, or laughter, or, on certain occasions, silence. But then he liked seeing things. Like the landscape, like his mother's happy face as he came off the school train, like his dog, like storms… and books. He liked books. He liked reading. He didn't know if he could ever get used to not reading. Sure, there was brail and books which could read their words aloud, and things like that but… the act of reading. The act of absorbing the meaningless signs and symbols that litter a page and translating them, in his mind, to words and sentences and concepts and ideas, it was magical.

Would he rather be blind or deaf? He'd never listen to the Weird Sisters again, so long as he could read their lyrics. Which, he supposed, answered the question for him.

- - -

"Question number one hundred and forty seven… Of the following which is your favourite word: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak?" Hermione Granger came back to the question several times. Nope. She hadn't been hallucinating. That really was the question. She'd done the rest, only that one was left. She began to consider each word separately.

She didn't like Nitwit. When she was five years old her cousin Davey had told her that when someone called someone else a Nitwit it meant that they could hear lice making fun of them. The wit of the nits, he called it. After a few strange and garbled conversations with her parents she'd ended up thinking that lice would take over the world through an evil plan involving dangerously acidic shampoos and lethally pointy combs. So she didn't like that. She didn't like Blubber either because it made her think of fat people crying and she didn't like people crying no matter what their weight. Nor did she like Tweak. It was a silly word that rhymed with other silly words like squeak and leek and bleak… alright maybe those words weren't that silly. But tweak itself was certainly a silly word and she didn't like it.

That left her with Oddment. She supposed she liked Oddment. It was sort of like oddity but somehow more open to debate. It was a good word. She marked it down and looked up at the clock. She had thirty seconds to go...


	2. Denial

**Author's Note:** Will take more than one day to get the next part up. Oh and, THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed.

* * *

What with the return of a certain Dark Lord, the removal of Delores Umbridge and Dumbledore's reinstatement, the students of Hogwarts had a great deal more to talk about over the following week than some idiotic test handed out by the Ministry. The air around Hogwarts could be nicely described as 'the lull before the storm'. Most students were making the most of what little peace and quiet they could find, as they sensed that they wouldn't me getting more of it for a while yet. But then, seven days after handing the test in and two days before the students went home, the purple-swathed Examiner returned to Hogwarts, and with him came the insatiable curiosity that came with any outsider.

Nobody had gotten a good look at him last time, but they still recognised him as the Examiner in charge. The one fortunate enough to leave the room during the entire, tedious affair. When they saw him sitting at the Staff Table, smug grin in place as the candlelight flickered off his pale, pointy, bald head, everyone was overcome with undeniable interest. Well… almost everyone.

"Ooh. Draco, look. It's that man from the Ministry."

Draco, who had been rather engrossed in attempting to make Potter's head explode with sheer force of will, grunted distractedly in response to this statement.

"I wonder what the 'interesting results' will be?" Pansy asked no one in particular.

"I doubt there will be any." Blaise responded, piling his plate high with what could only be described as a mountain of mashed potato. "It was probably just a test to see if there are any suspected Death Eaters around here or something. Pass the gravy, would you Goyle?"

"I did find that Azkaban question slightly suspicious." Theodore stated, taking a far more sedate approach to dinner and putting one, lone slice of steak pie on his plate and leaving it at that. "I mean why would they ask that unless they suspected you of something?"

Blaise nodded. "I'd forgotten about that one." he acknowledged.

"Draco? What do you think?" Pansy simpered, touching Draco's arm as though trying to subtly anchor him to her.

Draco didn't respond, while Blaise and Theo exchanged looks of annoyance at Pansy's display. They weren't the type who appreciated sycophantic behaviour from girls. Mainly because both would have been cursed stupid by their sisters if they had been. Draco Malfoy was an only child and did not have that problem. Not that it endeared him to Pansy. Indeed he barely seemed to notice her existence half the time. Completely blanking her while she was talking directly to him and touching his arm was a somewhat extreme manifestation of this fact though. Blaise reached over and prodded Crabbe, indicating the blond boy.

Crabbe understood instantly and kicked Malfoy under the table. Draco started and glared over at everyone who had been in the vague direction of the kick. Everyone feigned innocence. He rolled his eyes and turned to look at Pansy. "What?" he snapped.

She looked alarmed. "I, uh, I was asking what you thought about the Ministry test. That's all." she told him hastily.

"I don't."

"What?" Theodore asked.

"I don't think about the Ministry test. I have more important things to think about than what some bald idiot from the Ministry of Magic thinks of me." He apparently gave up on glaring at Potter and went back to glaring at everything else. While everyone else inched away from him, Pansy simply sat there gaping at him. When Draco snatched up his knife and viciously impaled a baked potato on it, she squeaked and quickly made her excuses before scurrying down the table towards Millicent Bulstrode.

Blaise sighed, resigning himself to Malfoy's foul mood for the remainder of the evening.

On the other side of the Great Hall, Hermione Granger sighed and resigned herself to Harry's foul mood. "He's going to be like this all night, isn't he?" she asked Ron in an undertone.

"Probably." he agreed grimly.

Harry seemed to have his overwhelming rage about Sirius's death and about the prophecy under control. And by "under control" Hermione meant "directed at Malfoy". All Draco Malfoy had to do was breathe and Harry was of the considered opinion that he was up to no good. It was hardly an unjustified opinion, but it was getting ridiculous. Finally abandoning any hopes he'd had of eating his dinner, Harry had decided that glaring at a sullen-looking Malfoy was altogether more productive. Had Hermione had slightly more faith in Harry's Occlumency ability, she would have almost suspected that Harry was attempting to read the boy's mind. But if Harry couldn't keep invading forces out, he had very little hope of being the invading force without a bit of help. Realising that he was a lost cause, she turned and looked around for something else to occupy her mind for the rest of the meal.

Hermione spotted a few dozen people pointing at the Staff table and whispering. She glanced up at it and spotted the man from the Ministry instantly. He was sitting in Professor McGonagall's normal chair which irked her somewhat. She pointed him out to Ron who frowned with a faintly puzzled expression on his face.

"It's the man from the Ministry." she told him, thinking he was trying to remember who it was.

Ron sent her an angry look. "I _know_ who it is Hermione." he told her. "But why is he here? When they said they were going to show the more interesting results, I thought they meant in a letter or something." he appeared thoughtful for a moment. "Or maybe a pamphlet. They're forever making pamphlets according to dad. He gets at least three home every week."

"About what?" Hermione asked, bewildered as to what on Earth the Ministry could have to talk so much about.

Ron shrugged. "Oh you know. Magical illnesses, cursed objects going around, latest Emergency Apparation protocol, that sort of stuff. I just assumed that was how they'd give us the results." he shook his head and turned back to his dinner. "Whatever's going on, it ranks pretty low on my list of priorities."

Hermione's gaze lingered on the Ministry Worker for another moment as he conversed with Professor Dumbledore. Professor Dumbledore was making a great show of looking politely interested, but Hermione saw him snag the last chicken drumstick off a platter at the Staff Table in a move which was far too calculated for him to be focussing properly on the conversation. She smiled slightly and turned to face Ron, not even bothering to attempt conversation with Harry. "Did you see the Daily Prophet today?" she asked him. "They're launching an investigation into the circumstances surrounding Sirius's death and re-examining his conviction."

Ron snorted humourlessly. "Really on the ball at the Ministry these days, aren't they?" he commented sarcastically. In a few short minutes the man from the Ministry had faded almost completely from Hermione's mind as more immediate concerns occupied her thoughts.

- - -

As dessert was served, a few Ravenclaw girls got up, obviously intent on leaving without eating any pudding. Professor Flitwick had caught them before they'd managed it, and sent them back to their table. Dumbledore had then requested that nobody leave the Great Hall until he'd had a word with them all. Naturally, everyone was suddenly interested. Even Harry had stopped glaring across at the Slytherin table, instead shooting looks between distaste and curiosity at the Ministry worker.

It took a short while for everyone to finish their third course. Some people had shovelled it down, wanting to hear what Dumbledore had to say, while others had refused to ruin such an important event as dessert with such petty trivialities as a personality test. Dumbledore himself seemed to belong to the latter category, taking his time to savour a toffee pudding. One Hufflepuff remarked that the food couldn't have been very good wherever he was hiding out, as he looked positively entranced by the pudding in question. Indeed, he looked a great deal more interested in it than he was the Ministry worker that sat on his right hand side. Finally though, dessert came to an end.

Dumbledore waved his wand, dimming the candles slightly, and got to his feet. Predictably, silence fell instantly. "There are a number of things I must share with you this evening." he told them. "Firstly, it is my great pleasure to inform you all that Professor Minerva McGonagall will be returning to Hogwarts tomorrow." there was a round of fairly enthusiastic applause, interspersed with whoops of delight and the occasional sigh of relief. Since McGonagall was hardly a cuddly teacher, this said more about the students than it did about her: Let no one say that the children of Hogwarts didn't take care of their own. Dumbledore also clapped, albeit with a tad more restraint. "Yes." he said after a moment, as comparative silence fell once again. "She is in excellent condition and informed me that she would curse anyone who treated her otherwise. I pass this message on to you all at great personal risk, as she also informed me that she would curse me if I warned you of this fact." He said, a small smile evident. There were a few laughs around the room; mostly from the Gryffindor table as they saw the statement as perfectly true rather than vaguely amusing.

"It is also my sad duty to inform you that, as a result of the current social climate, additional security measures will be taken on the train journey to King's Cross this year. Specifics will be distributed to you later, but at this point I can safely assure you that no one will be having a lie in that morning." he told them. There was a collective groan from the room, followed by some vehement muttering.

When silence fell once more, Dumbledore nodded slightly towards the Ministry worker on his right. "And finally, the Ministry of Magic has completed reviewing the personality tests taken in this very room, one week ago. I have been assured certain results are fascinating. These tests were distributed by the Ministry to promote House Unity, as you know. Since I agree that good relations between the houses are of utmost importance in this dark time, I permitted them to proceed with the tests and allowed them to distibute the results in any manner they saw fit. And since I am just as curious as you, I will now hand you over to Mister Cecil Crypture." Dumbledore took his seat brought his hands together in polite applause, which the rest of the hall took as an indication that they should, at the very least, feign interest.

"Thank you Professor Dumbledore." Cecil Crypture said in a slightly whiny voice as he stood up. He looked out over the many faces that stared back at him with professional detachment. The kind of professional detachment that made it obvious to everyone there that he cared even less about this moronic exercise than they did. The polite applause dwindled swiftly. "Well, it's a pleasure to be here this evening." he lied. "But that's not why I'm here. I am here to reveal the most interesting results of the tests you all took last week."

There was a short pause as he dug into the pocket of his purple robe and yanked out a small wad of paper. "Now. We had some very creative responses to certain questions. Including some people creating their own choices for multiple choice quizzes. But I digress." A few people exchanged knowing smirks. "Now, we at the Ministry were, initially, going to release a pamphlet with all the very most interesting results written inside in an easily accessible fashion-"

"Told you." Ron Weasley muttered.

"But it soon became apparent that the pamphlet would be the size of a complete Encyclopaedia if we did so, as you all had exceedingly interesting responses." So interesting that Cecil Crypture appeared to be valiantly resisting the urge to drown himself in the pumpkin juice, he looked so bored. "Indeed, we had been hoping to pair up all those students whose answers were most similar. We had set the bar at one hundred and twenty questions out of one hundred and fifty, to be similar, if not identical, meaning that you and the person you would be paired with would have eighty-five percent in common. We assumed that it would be easy."

Every student in the room looked mortally wounded that the Ministry of Magic thought them so generic or prosaic that they would have eighty-five percent in common with anyone else in the room. Cecil apparently picked up on this fact. He chuckled falsely and said "I can tell by your expressions that you are insulted by this assumption of ours. But I am pleased to tell you," he said through gritted teeth. "That hardly anyone fell into the categories we arranged. Indeed, the average number of questions each student had in common with anyone else was twenty three percent."

There was a moment of smugness from the students, as they revelled in their own uniqueness. This was quickly followed by some slight concern as they eyed their friends in a new light. Both sensations were soundly ignored by the Ministry worker as he continued talking. "Indeed, only one pair of people in the entire school answered the tests with more than eighty-five percent in common." he said. "And we are very pleased to say that they are from different houses."

Every Fifth Year at the Ravenclaw table immediately eyed Hermione Granger and Blaise Zabini. Every Fifth Year at the Hufflepuff table immediately eyed Neville Longbottom and Pansy Parkinson. Everyone at the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables glared at anyone who was eyeing their tables. Not one person from Slytherin even glanced in passing at the Gryffindor table, while not a single Gryffindor even let the thought pass through their heads that a Slytherin could have anything in common with them.

All of this happened in under three seconds, meaning that Cecil Crypture didn't even slow down. All the students' gaze landed on him once more as he continued, but they looked genuinely interested now. "Yes, I am pleased to announce that, with ninety two percent in common we found a pair of suitable candidates to promote House unity. They are even in the same year!" he announced.

Even Snape looked mildly curious by this point.

"And so, without further ado, I am pleased to announce the two students in all of Hogwarts who have the very most in common…" he paused for dramatic effect, seeming to enjoy messing with the students. A thousand adolescents leant a few inches closer to him in anticipation staring at him with a close facsimile to fascination. "Are Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy!" he declared.

Clearly, Cecil had been expecting applause.

Or perhaps laughter.

Or maybe even outraged denial.

He had not been expecting one thousand people to continue staring at him in astonished silence. Even the ghosts seemed more deadly still than usual. Heads began to swivel slowly round to face the two boys in question.

Harry Potter was about three shades paler than usual. His mouth formed one grim line, while his wide eyes pinned Cecil with a glare. His hands held his empty goblet in a vice-like grip and he looked, to the casual observer, not unlike someone who'd just played peek-a-boo with a Basilisk. On his left, Seamus Finnegan was inching away nervously. Opposite, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were exchanging stunned looks, their breath clearly caught in their throats. Three tables over, at the very opposite end of the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy had turned a delicate shade of green. His eyes were like slits as he sent a look of pure venom at the hapless Ministry worker. His hands were shaking slightly with rage as he clung to the edge of the table, seemingly for support.

Everyone unfortunate enough to sit between the two of them (Read: Everyone except the teachers) was beginning to feel a little bit nervous. Colin Creevey was later heard to comment that it was rather like playing hot-potato with a grenade and just waiting for things to go wrong.

"_Excuse me_?" Both boys hissed simultaneously. Shockingly enough, this did very little to help them banish the belief that they had ninety-two-percent in common. A few braver individuals around the hall sniggered. Potter and Malfoy exchanged fleeting glowers, before once again nailing Cecil with their unforgiving looks. Were it possible to kill someone with a look, dear Mister Crypture would have been stripped, beaten and crucified in an instant.

"I um…" he stammered. Cecil glanced around. He was the only one in the entire room still standing. No teachers were rushing in to rescue him and, indeed, many of them seemed to be trying not to laugh at the scene playing out before them. Dumbledore himself looked thoroughly amused; his blue eyes twinkling while his beard quivered silently. "If uh…" Cecil cleared his throat. "If anyone has any questions about their results, they should feel free to ask me about them afterwards, as I have everyone's papers in the antechamber." he told them. Potter and Malfoy looked murderous. It was apparent that they'd be taking him up on that offer later on. Both seemed too surprised and incredulous at that particular moment to curse him though.

Showing superior survival instincts, Cecil hurried on with some claptrap about the importance of cooperation in this dark time and told the students that a unified front could save all their lives. Cecil wondered vaguely what would save _his_ life once those two teenagers got a hold of him. Nobody was really listening anyway, as they were all watching the two boys with bloodthirsty anticipation and clearly waiting for one or both to go nuclear.

After around five minutes of trite and meaningless utterances which even Cecil didn't give a damn about, he gave up the ghost and sat back down. Dumbledore was the first to applaud. He was the only to do so with any enthusiasm. Most people were either still watching Potter and Malfoy, or else whispering delightedly to their friends, and so they caught onto the fact they were supposed to be clapping fairly late in the game.

Dumbledore got up. "Thank you, Mister Crypture. That was…" he smiled. "Most illuminating." More tittering sounded around the room; it was quickly stifled. "Now, for those of you who have questions about your tests, I recommend returning to your common rooms. For those of you who do, I'm certain you are capable of taking care of the matter yourself. Good evening, all."

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy got to their feet and swept up to the teachers' table with such speed and purpose that it seemed rather fortunate there was no one in their way. The reason there was no one in their way was that every single child in the hall was lingering by their seats for distinctly longer than necessary, in hopes of seeing something entertaining. A quick glare from a few of the more mature prefects had most of them trickling out in a few moments however. Potter and Malfoy, for their part, were standing in front of the Staff Table; an air of strained restraint hung about them like a physical weight and Cecil found himself subconsciously checking the nearest exits.

The teachers were leaving the room too, though a few of them looked even more reluctant to go than the students. Cecil was pleased to see that Dumbledore was still there. Given Dumbledore's recent history with the Ministry, Cecil could hardly blame him if he felt disinclined to help a Ministry Worker, but he showed no sign of vacating the room. Yet. It reassured Cecil slightly, and made him feel he was unlikely to be slaughtered by two teenaged boys. Two teenaged boys, both of whom Cecil was increasingly aware had less than adorable reputations. Harry Potter, who had faced the Dark Lord himself on numerous occasions and survived more-or-less unscathed, and Draco Malfoy who was Potter's school nemesis from what he'd heard and was also Lucius Malfoy's only son. When he thought about it like that, Cecil supposed it had been rather foolish to hope that they would see the humour in the situation.

When, at last, the four of them were left alone in the Great Hall a small explosion seemed to take the place.

"What did you say?"

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Is this some sort of joke?"

"Surely you don't expect me to believe-"

"Ninety-two percent?"

"With _him_?"

"I have _nothing_ in common with that evil son of a-"

"Stuck up, self-important, goody-goody, moronic-"

"Nazi, psychotic, Death Eater wannabe-"

"Bleeding heart, brainless, facially disfigured, teacher's pet-"

"Never happen-"

"Not in a million years-"

"Obviously some mistake."

"Obviously a slight against my character."

"_What_ character?"

"Oh shove it Potter. Shouldn't you be off weeping about the terrible burdens of being a celebrity or something?"

"Shouldn't you be off plotting my demise while stroking a white cat?"

"What the… you really have gone mental."

"Nice insult Malfoy. Really cuts me to the quick that one."

"Leave sarcasm for the more experienced Potter. You're clearly not good with it."

"Whatever. Point is, this is clearly a mistake."

"Puh. No argument here."

"That's a first."

"Why don't you-"

"Boys?" Dumbledore interrupted politely.

Potter and Malfoy, who had been inches away from one another's faces, snapped around to look at the Professor with animosity etched into every fibre of their beings. Though both were of slight build, and neither had their hands on their wands, Cecil was still quite intimidated. The fact that Professor Dumbledore thought this rampant hostility an unremarkable event hardly helped with this fact, and left him wondering just what those two did to each other when they were really annoyed. Grudgingly, both composed themselves and turned to face the Professor properly.

"Excellent." said Dumbledore happily. "Now, if either of you have any inquiries you'd like to make, this would be the time."

Harry Potter was the first to speak up. "What did you mean by saying that we had ninety-two percent in common with each other?" he demanded of Cecil.

Cecil cleared his throat. "Well… um… you see this thing is…" he coughed. "You do."

"_What_?" Malfoy snarled menacingly. Potter didn't seem exactly inclined to believe it either. Cecil was sure he saw the boy's hand twitch for his wand.

"Perhaps if you let them see for themselves, Mister Crypture?" Dumbledore suggested.

Cecil gulped, nodded and waved his wand. A few seconds later, two slender files were hurtling towards them from the Antechamber. The files were the same rich purple colour as his robes, and were stamped in gold with the official Ministry seal. He held his hand out expectantly for them. The first had the words 'Malfoy, Draco Aquilius' printed across it while the second read 'Potter, Harry James'. Neither file looked particularly infuriating on its own, but the death glares Cecil was receiving made him all too aware that the two boys in front of him felt differently.

He laid both files on the Staff table and gestured between them. "You can look for yourself." he told them nervously. "Ninety two percent of questions in there are either identical or so similar that it's of little consequence.

"I'll do that." Malfoy snarled.

"So will I." Potter agreed coolly. "Every - Single - Question. On both papers."

Cecil gaped at them. He sent a look at Dumbledore who wore an expression on his face as though he were watching a mildly interesting television show. "But… but… you can't!" Cecil cried.

"Why not?" Both boys shot back instantly. Their irritation seemed to be growing as they exchanged yet another glare.

"Why… why not! Because there are one hundred and fifty questions per paper! That's three hundred questions total! Are you honestly going to sit here and go over three hundred questions again, just to prove that you don't have ninety two percent of answers in common?" he asked, astounded. "It's eight o'clock. You'd be here until eleven at the very least and I'd have to watch over you both, since that's Ministry property! You can't be serious!"

Both sent him a pitying look. They each snatched up the other's test paper and took a seat at the Staff Table: Potter in Professor McGonagall's chair, Malfoy in Professor Snape's and the Headmasters sat between them like the proverbial no-mans land. Professor Dumbledore watched them with his eyebrows raised.

Cecil fully expected him to protest, but all he said was; "If you're still here by eleven, I'll have the Kitchens send up some refreshments." he stated, turning and heading for the doors.

Both boys acknowledged this fact with a short grunt, as they flicked open the files. Cecil stared between the two of them and the retreating form of Dumbledore, his jaw nearly hitting the ground. Dumbledore had nearly reached the grand oak doors before Cecil shot after him. "Professor Dumbledore!" he yelped. "You can't… I mean they can't… it's just a silly little test for heavens sake!"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, they do seem to be taking it rather badly, don't they?"

"You can't seriously expect me to stay here until eleven o'clock at night because of this, can you?" he asked.

"My dear man, I believe you are greatly overestimating Harry and Draco's ability to co-exist. If this little endeavour of theirs is complete before midnight, I should consider it quite a victory for House Unity." Dumbledore informed him with all sincerity.

Cecil stammered incoherently for a few moments before finally choking out. "Can't you stop them? Make them just accept it? Go back to their common rooms?"

To his immense surprise, Dumbledore chuckled. "There are many things I can do, Mister Crypture. I am capable of controlling far more than the ordinary human being, a fact which tends to be more apparent within the walls of Hogwarts than anywhere else." he looked up to the Staff table with affection. "However there are certain things I cannot, and will not, do."

"But if you just _asked_ them!" Cecil whined.

"I doubt it would have any effect." Dumbledore dismissed. "I'm not sure what your Ministry-devised personality tests told you about Mister Potter and Mister Malfoy," he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "But one undeniable similarity between the two, is that both are quite gloriously obstinate." He moved away once again. "Good Evening, Mister Crypture."


	3. Scrutiny

**The Author's rather superfluous Note:** Before continuing, I'd like to say that I am not suggesting that Harry and Draco are "kindred spirits" or whatever (I have a very similar view on the whole soul-mates thing to Mr. Sloper, so I'm not entirely clear how that works). Rather, I am suggesting that certain aspects of their personality manifest themselves in similar ways. A fact which, if all goes according to plan, should be evident in this and following chapters. If all doesn't go according to plan, then I may as well state it here for the benefit of those who don't live in my head.

* * *

Cecil had once read an article his brother-in-law had given him in an effort to explain magic. It was about Quantum Mechanics. Cecil thought it was a load of crap and had used it as evidence that his sister should get a divorce, but there was one part of it he remembered. It had been the conclusion: "And so it is not existence, so much as the perception of existence, which actually permits things to exist. If it is perceived as so, so it shall be." Cecil now had proof that this article had been ridiculous. If it had been other people's perception of him which allowed him to exist, he would have tumbled into oblivion about three hours ago. He sighed, leant back in his chair, and began reorganising the filing cabinets at the office in his mind.

At the staff table, Harry and Draco were becoming increasingly annoyed. Though it was hardly the main reason for their annoyance, the fact that Dumbledore's promised refreshments had yet to arrive hardly helped matters.

"Right. Last question. What did you put for one-hundred and fifty?" Draco demanded, dragging a hand across his face.

Harry took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes in frustration. "What, '_Sum yourself up in five words_'?" he asked.

Draco gritted his teeth. "Yes Potter. See the little one-five-oh next to that question? That indicates that it is question one-hundred and fifty." he told him darkly. "Therefore when I ask what you put for question one-hundred and fifty, and that question reveals itself to _be_ question one-hundred and fifty, I am indeed asking what you put for that question." he explained.

"Must you be sarcastic about everything?" Harry snapped.

"What do you think?"

Harry frowned. "Were you just being sarcastic in response to me asking if you were being sarcastic? Because that's just pathetic."

"Oh bloody hell." Draco muttered.

The two of them had slowly descended into disarray. The chairs which they had once sat upon in a proper manner were now either abandoned in favour of stretching out upon the table itself (in Harry's case) or being leant back upon, so that it teetered on two legs while its occupant propped his crossed legs upon the table. Both had discarded their topmost robes, and Potter had also removed his school tie. Potter's hair was now nothing short of chaotic, testament to the many times he had run his hands through it, and even Draco's was starting to look a little rumpled. Both were developing dark circles under their eyes and both were showing absolutely no signs of suffering because of it. The files they had been working on had now been disassembled, replicated, highlighted, and scribbled upon so often that they bore little resemblance to the neat, tidy Ministry files they had once been.

"I wrote… _My name is Harry Potter_." Harry recited.

Draco swore under his breath as the words "My name is Draco Malfoy" stared up at him. He had, of course, already read Potter's paper. Twice. But he continually hoped that he had just been hallucinating all the similar answers. He sighed heavily and slammed the paper down on the desk. "All right. This isn't getting us anywhere. Maybe we should just- ARGH!"

"Maybe we should just "argh"? Oh yes Malfoy. Simply splendid idea that one." Harry said, returning his glasses to his face and stretching languidly on the table.

Draco glared at him. Then he glared at the source of his outburst. Four timid-looking House Elves had appeared at his side, carrying a tray large enough to declare its own airspace, and laden with so much food and drink that it was nothing short of miraculous such tiny creatures could carry it. "Weren't you supposed to send that up at eleven?" he snarled at the creatures.

They all nodded as they placed the tray upon the table. "Oh yes sir." the nearest elf agreed. "A thousand pardons sir. We had trouble getting up here though sir."

"I don't care about your excuses." Draco snapped, reaching out and pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice.

"I care about their excuses." Harry stated in a contrary tone. Draco glared at him again. "Why did you have trouble getting up here?" he asked the elves, helping himself to a chicken sandwich.

"Oh the students sir." another elf stated. "They are gathering around the Great Hall."

"The ones who know of the Kitchens' location are gathering in there as well."

"Standing on the tables."

"Listening for something sir."

Draco groaned. Not only was he facing the indignity of comparing notes with Harry, bloody, Potter but he was doing so within earshot of god-knew-who. If Pansy heard any of the conversation, his social life was basically dead. If Blaise Zabini heard any of the conversation, he was probably looking at a quick duel the following day. He considered a moment and realised that, on the up side, if Daphne Greengrass heard any of the conversation, his chances of going out with her had just increased greatly. Providing of course that the rumour about her having a crush on Potter was true. Then again, if that were true he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to go out with her.

Potter also seemed to be having some issues with this revelation. He had cringed spectacularly and hid his face in his hands. Good. If Draco was going to feel humiliated, it was only fair that Potter should too. Git.

"They isn't hearing anything though sirs." the smallest elf piped up.

"They isn't? Er… they aren't?" Draco asked hopefully.

The elf shook its head. "Professor Dumbledore sir is soundproofing room before requesting refreshments sent up." he/she/it squeaked (Draco could never tell). "The students is just interfering with our cooking."

"They makes it very hard to pop up."

A crinkle appeared in Harry's forehead. "Pop up? You mean Apparate, right?"

"No sir. What we do is different sir. The peoples and things that is in the way is very important sir. You see-"

"Yeah, we don't care." Draco told them sharply. "Go away."

They did so. All four disappearing with a loud pop. Potter sent him a disgusted look. "You know, I could have been interested in that." he said huffily.

"Planning on coming back as a House Elf in your next life then?"

"It could have been interesting."

"So go read a book." Draco dismissed. He had more important things to worry about than Potter's mindless interest in House Elves. His reputation was not only hanging in the balance, but all the ham sandwiches had mustard on them. It was quite distressing. He'd never understand the insatiable urge people had to put condiments on things. Idiots.

Draco vanished the mustard in annoyance and looked up. Potter had vaulted off the table and was standing by the tray of food, apparently taking his time in deciding what to eat after the sandwich in his hand (which had mayonnaise on it, the sick freak). Behind him, the purple man from the Ministry, whose name Draco didn't even pretend to remember, had fallen asleep at the Ravenclaw table. His head was in his hands and he was snoring softly. It was pitiful really. If Draco had been in his position, he would have rather cursed the bench and table to resemble a bed of nails and keep him awake than fall asleep in a room with two boys who clearly wanted to injure him. But then Draco obviously wasn't Ministry of Magic material.

Potter was staring at his goblet of pumpkin juice as though it held the secrets to the universe. Draco would have taunted him but it was just too easy at that point. There was hardly any fun to be had anymore. "What are you doing?" he asked, in the politest tone he could muster. The politest tone he could muster could still be described as a snarl, but it was an improvement at least.

Potter blinked a few times, as though remembering Draco's presence. "Oh. Nothing. Just… thinking…"

The four-eyed prat went back to his pondering. Draco wondered if it would be classed as sporting to kill him as he stood there staring off into space. Probably not. Besides, with the Ministry goon asleep and Draco himself being the only other occupant of the room, he'd have to tear himself up pretty badly to make anyone believe that he wasn't responsible. And he wasn't ready to join his rather quite yet. "Thinking _what_?" he demanded.

Potter looked up at him. "Thinking that our answers aren't as similar as they might appear at first." he said calmly, before he hurriedly set about reassembling the abused answer papers.

Draco honestly didn't know what annoyed him more: The cryptic pronouncement, or the triumphant glint in Potter's eye as he came out with aforementioned cryptic pronouncement. It was a glint not unlike the one he wore when he caught the snitch, and it was a glint Draco had come to loathe with every fibre of his being. He reached out his hands in front of him and mimed throttling Potter with them. Oh how he wished… "You've been associating with that old coot of a Headmaster for too long Potter." he commented acerbically. "The propensity for meaningless drivel has obvious rubbed off."

Infuriatingly, Potter didn't bite. He was too busy reconstructing those moronic test papers to even look up. Draco was really trying not to curse him, honestly he was, but the temptation was getting greater all the time. A moment later his answer paper was thrust towards him and Potter hopped up onto the table once more. He sat with his legs crossed, the test paper on the desk in front of him and his answer paper clutched in his hand.

"Right." he said finally. "I have a theory."

"God help us."

"Shut up." Shockingly enough, Malfoy did so. Not out of any aching need to do what Harry told him to, just because he was busy praying that Potter had come up with a way to get them out of this nightmare with their dignity intact. He continued: "I don't think our answers are even vaguely similar." he stated.

Draco could've cried. Instead he quirked a dignified eyebrow and said, "Well the ninety-two percent in common begs to differ."

Harry shook his head, the candlelight cast odd shadows on his face making his glinting eyes seem slightly demented. "No. See. You're not paying attention. It's multiple choice." he gestured the paper emphatically in front of Draco's bewildered face. "The answers themselves are too short. They don't know us. They don't know me, they don't know you, they just know what we wrote in here. But why we wrote what we wrote in here is, I think, completely different."

"Potter what precisely was in that pumpkin juice, may I ask?"

Potter looked like he was going to thump him. He whipped open the answer paper. "All right. I'll prove it. For the last question, sum yourself up in five words, I wrote: My name is Harry Potter. Right?"

"Riiight." Draco agreed slowly.

"And you wrote, 'My name is Draco Malfoy'. Now, knowing you," Harry shot Draco a look of disgust at this juncture. "I'm guessing you wrote this to convey your inbreeding- I mean pureblood ancestry or something. Or maybe to say, '_ooh look, I've got a Manor named after me, aren't I SPESHUL?_'" Potter mocked in a high pitched tone.

The urge to curse the scruffy-haired twerp was hardly leaving Malfoy. "_Actually_, I wrote it to annoy the examiners." he responded.

"Annoy the examiners? How would that annoy the examiners?"

"Easy. Most people were writing rubbish about 'brave, smart, funny, adventurous, daring' or any other assortment of vaguely flattering adjectives their thick, meaty heads could come up with. My response was one which was actually relevant, seeing as how the whole point of a name is to define you from others." Draco said, his most superior tone and expression both evident. This quickly segued into a sneer. "Why? What were your reasons for writing it? You were worried that writing 'I'm the Boy-Who-Lived' only counted as three words?"

"No." Harry growled.

It occurred to Draco that rather a lot of their interactions were growl-based, snarl-based, or snark-based. Since they were travelling this fresh hell together, he decided to play nice. Well… nice-ish. Kind of nice-ish. Nicer than he had been, at any rate. "All right, fine. Why did you put the answer you put?" he asked complaisantly.

Potter watched him suspiciously but answered. "Because." he said, in a manner highly-reminiscent of a disagreeable toddler.

"Potter!" Draco snapped. "This idiotic little exercise was your bloody idea, now tell me why you wrote the answer that you wrote."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Because I sat for a while and tried to think of adjectives like everyone else was doing. Then I decided that it was impossible to sum a human being up in five words. No matter how one-dimensional they seem to be." he added, with a pointed look at Draco before continuing. "So I thought about it some more and realised that most people I meet only need to hear my name before they assume everything about me anyway. So why bother telling them more than that?"

It annoyed Draco somewhat that he could see the logic in Potter's answer, and so he decided to change the subject. "Well what about the other questions?" he asked. "Can your little theory be applied to them, too?"

Potter smirked. Draco later decided that seeing Harry Potter smirk was actually quite intimidating. "Well lets see, shall we?" He asked. With this comment, Potter slid back into McGonagall's chair and sat comfortably. The expression he wore on his face indicated to all the world that he was settling in for a crossword puzzle or something. It was quite bizarre.

"Do you do this a lot?" Draco blurted out. He immediately wished he hadn't, as Potter was looking at him very strangely, but decided he may as well hold his ground.

"Do I do what a lot?" Potter asked in confusion. "Sit in the Great Hall at midnight and try to disprove a ninety-two percent similarity between me and you? No Malfoy, I don't do that a lot."

"It's you and I."

"Pardon?"

"You said 'me and you', it should be 'you and I'." Draco corrected. The expression Potter sent him made him feel as though he were in a giant pink bunny suit, but he pressed on. "And I didn't mean that. I meant trying to figure out solutions to surreal problems, never before encountered in the History of Hogwarts, in the middle of the night. Do you do that a lot?"

Potter smirked a sardonic little smirk again. "More than most, I suppose."

Draco shook his head and took a swig of pumpkin juice. "Weird."

"What is?"

"That you can be quick-witted under these circumstances and a complete and total halfwit the rest of the time." Potter looked like he was going to take offence to that statement and opened his mouth to respond. Draco feigned ignorance and continued. "Still, I suppose beggars can't be choosers. You'll take your moments of intelligence where you can get them."

Potter muttered something under his breath, something which was no doubt insulting but Draco didn't especially care. He picked up his answer paper and allowed his eyes to drift over the parchment. His own neat, square handwriting covered the page. Up in the right-hand corner there was a doodle he had done during the test itself, of Harry Potter crashing into a tree on his Firebolt. Draco felt the resulting painful death had been implied, however Potter had enchanted the doodle to show himself landing without a scratch and proceeding to grab the snitch from under Draco's nose further along the page. Draco glared at it and prodded the picture with his wand, so that the snitch doodle-Potter caught turned out to be a dungbomb while his doodle-self made a spectacular dive and caught the actual snitch further across the page.

This necessary adjustment made, he returned his attentions to his answers. All one hundred and fifty of them. "We are not going over all of these again." he stated firmly. "Not all of them. My head will explode if I have to analyse my favourite colour one more time."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Yes Malfoy, because it's such a huge shock as to why you like green." he said sarcastically. He was getting good at sarcasm. It was disconcerting.

Draco made a noise of disgust and looked at Potter carefully. "Go on then, why do you like green?" he demanded. "Shouldn't you be putting down red, like a good little Gryffindor drone?"

"It just so happens that Gryffindors are a bit more original than that." Potter informed him, with a sanctimonious expression which would have made Helga Hufflepuff herself give up and pretences and beat the living daylights out of him. "Anyway, I agree with you. I don't intend to analyse every single question. For one thing, I really don't want to know the logic behind you wanting to be a Cauldron Stand for a day."

"Easy: I could break and drown Longbottom."

"Malfoy, you really need a hobby."

"Torturing dumb Gryffindors _is_ a hobby, Potter."

"Oh shut up."

- - -

It took them the better part of ten more minutes to agree on a method for choosing which questions would be examined more closely and which questions would be ignored, repressed, and banished to the hell from whence they came. Finally, it was agreed that for every interval of ten questions on of them would chose a question. The last ten questions would be skipped, of course, as they'd already done that.

"So what if your little theory doesn't work out?" Malfoy asked, snatching a pumpkin pasty off the tray and examining it carefully. "What if we do turn out to have ninety-two percent in common?" After carefully removing each and every sugary sprinkle that littered its surface, the Slytherin deemed the pasty worthy to eat and bit into it with appreciation.

Harry shook his head in amazement that anyone could be so fussy about their food. He doubted that even the Russian Royal family would've been quite so picky at quarter past midnight. "Malfoy, if we have ninety-two percent in common, I'll probably die of shock, so what you do wouldn't really concern me overly much." he stated, pouring himself yet another glass of cold pumpkin juice.

On reflex more than anything, Harry offered the jug to Malfoy when he was done. He'd seen that Malfoy's glass was empty and had offered it impulsively, as he would with Ron or Hermione. Malfoy had, in turn, taken the pumpkin juice and very nearly poured himself a glass. He had then paused, inspecting it as someone would a fine antique.

Harry sighed. "I didn't poison it, you know." he said angrily, thinking that maybe he should've. It would certainly make things easier.

"Hmm?" Malfoy looked up. "Oh. No. It wasn't that." he frowned. "This ice is melting." he said. "The water's mixed with the pumpkin juice."

"Well it's been out for a while, so that makes sense." Harry commented, oblivious as to what Malfoy's problem was.

Malfoy continued to stare at it suspiciously for a moment before sighing heavily and pouring himself a glass. He had an air about him as though this simple act were a great hardship. Harry shook his head in bewilderment. "We should get on with this." he said firmly. He wanted out of there as quickly as possible, after all. "Lets see… Question Three: If you were an animal, what animal do you think you'd be?" he read, deciding that he may as well start with one they answered differently for the sake of his ego.

"Arctic Fox." Malfoy read aloud. Harry went to open his mouth and Malfoy hurried on. "Potter, if you make one more ferret joke I'm going to poison your food before the holidays." he warned.

Harry shut his mouth, but continued smirking. "Why a fox?" he asked, as though nothing unusual had occurred.

"Because in the entire history of my family, both sides, any member who has become an Animagus has become some form of dog. Besides, they have good mythology attached to them. Cunning, sly, tricky." Malfoy shrugged.

Harry shrugged also, not particularly wanting to try and understand why these traits were considered good things. "And why Arctic?" he asked.

Malfoy snorted. "You expect me to turn into a red-head?" he asked sceptically. Harry had a mental image of Draco Malfoy with flaming red hair and freckles. He shuddered. Malfoy noticed it and nodded. "Precisely. Now. Time for you to explain Bambi." Malfoy said happily.

A scowl appeared instantly on Harry's face. Malfoy apparently found his earlier answer about being a stag to be quite hilarious. He had made several references to Harry pulling Santa's sleigh, being skinned by Hercules and to Saint Hubertus. Harry only really got the first reference, but was irritated nonetheless. "I wrote it because it's the form my Patronus takes." he said quietly. He hadn't actually been intending to talk quietly, but things had a tendency to come out muffled when your jaws were clenched together.

"Oh yeah." Malfoy said thoughtfully. "Forgot about that." Harry had forgotten that Draco had once been up close and personal with his Patronus, and felt vaguely relieved that he wouldn't have to confirm, yet again, that he could produce a corporeal Patronus. "But why is that the form your Patronus takes?" Draco asked. "Don't things like that usually have personal significance?"

Harry took a deep breath. He may as well tell the annoying little prat why his Patronus took the form of a stag. It wasn't like he was protecting anyone anymore. Sirius was dead, his father was dead, and he really didn't give a damn if Peter Pettigrew got landed in Azkaban. Not that he'd be landed in Azkaban just for being an illegal Animagus: The Psychotic, serial-killing Death Eater aspect would probably contribute in some fashion. Besides, it was no guarantee Malfoy would ask further questions. And he'd indicated that he already knew about Sirius… Harry glowered as he recalled Malfoy's taunt at the start of the year. He'd been forgetting just how much he disliked the pointy, Slytherin bastard.

"Because it was my father's Animagus form." he said in a matter-of-fact tone, hoping to deter any comments about Sirius.

Malfoy looked surprised at the revelation. For about two seconds. Then he smirked. Harry refused to admit that he was even the slightest bit interested in whatever moronic witticism Malfoy had concocted, but he still felt a tiny pang of disappointment when the smirk was replaced with a blank look. No, wait. It wasn't blank. It was furious. However since the fury wasn't directed outwards (in other words; wasn't directed at Harry himself), and since it wasn't directed inwards, Harry thought he could be forgiven for not recognising it straight away. Rather, this anger seemed to be directed sideways, as though Malfoy wasn't quite sure who or what he was mad at but was still quite certain that he was incensed.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked. "Not that I care, particularly, but we do have more questions to get on with."

Malfoy's eyes flashed wider for a moment, in anger. It was quite gratifying really. "We have different answers." Malfoy stated.

"Yes." Harry agreed, in the most serious tone he could. "Congratulations. You've figured that out. Good for you. I'm sure your mother want to tell all her friends that her little boy can tell the difference between a fox and a stag." he

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy's infuriated expression didn't change. Though a bit more of his anger was directed at Harry this time. "No, _you prat_." he said slowly. "We've got different answers, but we've got the same reason. One of the few questions we answered differently, and we both answered for the same reason: The family connection." Malfoy let out a hissing breath. "Nice to see this little theory of yours is going so well." he commented.

Harry nearly kicked himself. No, wait, Harry nearly kicked Malfoy. "Well… the average people had in common was twenty-three percent, right?" he asked.

"That's what the idiot said, yes."

"So if all the questions we answered differently, we answered for the same reasons, then most of the questions we answered the same would be for different reasons. Right?"

"What?"

Harry flipped the page in the quiz. "Here, I'll show you. Pick a number between ten and nineteen."

Malfoy looked sceptical. He was still leaning casually back in his chair, but now his arms were crossed firmly across his chest while the answer paper was resting on his lap. He could have looked quite suave, save the fact that he had an expression on his face like a two-year-old who'd just been told he couldn't have a pony. "Fourteen." he answered grudgingly.

Harry looked at the question paper. "_What season do you most look forward to?_" he read. "I said Autumn. So did you."

"How do you know what I put?"

"Because I've read your paper three times Malfoy. Besides, fourteen was right next to the tree I crashed into." Harry commented airily. "Anyway, I said Autumn because I don't like Summer. Autumn means I can go back to Hogwarts. I'm guessing that's not why you wrote it, is it?"

"No." Malfoy agreed hesitantly. "It's not."

Harry gestured for Malfoy to elaborate, as he didn't seem at all inclined to do so of his own volition. It sometimes seemed like it'd be easier to have a dinner party, with Lord Voldemort, in Azkaban than it would be to communicate with Draco Malfoy. Still, Harry knew he'd answer eventually. Mainly because if he didn't, Harry was going to snap, kill him and make it look like an accident. An incredibly painful accident.

"It's the start of the Quidditch season. And we start our new classes." He paused, as though expecting Harry to make a remark about the fact he looked forward to starting new classes. But with a best friend like Hermione, Harry could hardly do such a thing in good conscience. Malfoy eventually continued, but was still eyeing Harry suspiciously. "Anyway, I don't like the summer. It's too hot. And blue skies are boring."

"Excuse me?"

Malfoy looked disgusted at the very thought. "Blue skies. I hate them. In Autumn you get dark clouds coming in when it's raining, or you get fog, or something. Even on the nicer days there are white clouds being chased across the sky, doing some interesting things. In summer it's just _blue_. Miles and miles of blue, with nothing happening. It gets depressing after a while." He picked up a Cauldron cake and began tearing it to pieces. "I like variety." he said, popping one of the little pieces in his mouth.

Harry was fairly certain that his eyebrows were disappearing into his hairline. Well, he supposed you learnt something new every day. And today he'd not only learned that Malfoy didn't like shrubs, but he'd also learned that Malfoy was barking mad. "Er… okaaay. Different reasons then." he said, wanting to move on as quickly as possible. "My turn. Number between twenty and twenty-nine… I pick twenty-six."

"_Would you rather: A- Be forced to walk around naked for a twenty-four hours, or B- Have your thoughts revealed to everyone around you for a whole day?_" Malfoy recited. "Easy. Naked." he said.

Harry had also answered with A, but he doubted that they'd answered this one for the same reason. "Why? He demanded.

Malfoy shrugged. "Because I have nothing to be ashamed of and don't especially care if people want to look at me naked. My thoughts, however, are my own. Besides, some of the things I think could get me expelled if some of the teachers heard it." he added, almost as an afterthought.

Harry's eyes went skyward. "You know, I really believe you."

A supremely unaffected Malfoy just shrugged and took a sip of pumpkin juice. "Your turn." he said. "Why option A? Is it an exhibitionist thing, or do you just want to give the Daily Prophet something to talk about? After all, I suppose the one thing they don't have a picture of you doing is playing Quidditch in the buff."

"Neither, you idiot." Harry said, in a tone he hoped was malicious, but he couldn't really tell. "I just thought that… well, everyone would forget if you went walking around starkers."

"Not if I had anything to do with it." Malfoy remarked. Harry chose to ignore him.

"But some of the things you think would have more lasting damage if other people heard them." he continued. The first people to be hurt, in Harry's mental scenario, would be Ron and Hermione. If Ron heard some of the suspicions Harry had about him and Hermione… well, safe to say that wouldn't go down well. And if Hermione heard some of the thoughts Harry had about SPEW, he was fairly certain he wouldn't have had any humiliating areas _left_ to be embarrassed about, should they be shown to the public.

Malfoy retched loudly and melodramatically. "Oh… Oh, sorry. It was just that goody-goody reasoning. And while I was eating as well. It was too much for me, sorry." he said, not sounding sorry in the least.

Harry continued. "I think we've established that we answered that one differently." he growled. "Pick a number between thirty and thirty-nine."

"It's going to be a very long night, isn't it Potter?" Malfoy sighed, seeming quite sincere as he did so.

Harry sighed also, feeling extremely put upon. Not just because he was having to stay up so late, but also because he was being forced to agree with Draco _Malfoy_. He nodded. "It's seems pretty likely at this point, Malfoy. Now pick a bloody number before I curse you."


	4. Obduracy

"Thirty-seven." Malfoy said dully.

Harry scanned his question paper, looking for the question. He noticed that Malfoy wasn't deigning to look over his own paper, a fact which would normally have irritated him, but he was somewhat preoccupied being irritated with everything else at that point, so it was difficult for him to care. Besides, he thought, maybe it was for the best. This way Malfoy's selections really were random.

His eyes landed on the question. "Are you comfortable with you're height?" he read.

He glanced at his own answer paper, which was laid on the Teacher's Table, out of habit rather than curiosity. Harry already knew his answer to the question. He also knew Malfoy's, and so it came as no surprise when he heard a weary "Yes" come from his left.

"Why?" Harry asked. Unlike Malfoy, he was capable of functioning despite his exhaustion, and so he kept his tone brisk.

Malfoy did not. "Be_cause_." he sighed petulantly.

Harry rolled his eyes and looked over at the Slytherin boy. Malfoy was sitting with his head propped up on his arm. It looked as though he might fall asleep right there. Harry watched him for a moment before acting. "Malfoy?" he said conversationally. "Do you remember that time in second-year when you used Tarantallegra on me?"

He hadn't even got to the end of the sentence before Malfoy perked up. He stuck out his chin and narrowed his eyes, clearly daring Harry to do something.

Harry, however, had already got what he wanted and quickly moved on. "So, why are you comfortable with you're height?" he asked again.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Because there is absolutely nothing wrong with my height, _that's_ why." he snapped.

Harry stared at him bewilderedly for a moment. "But… you're short." he pointed out, feeling very much as though he were explaining a concept such as '_The Sky Is Blue_' or '_Dragons Can Hurt You_' to a particularly dense three-year-old.

Judging by Malfoy's expression, he felt similarly incredulous. "Bit rich, coming from you, Potter." he remarked, with an exaggerated look up and down Harry. "Besides," he continued, now examining his fingernails. "What's wrong with being short? Not like there are any downsides to it."

There were times when Harry almost forgot that he had grown up with Muggles; he felt so completely at home in the Wizarding World that it just slipped his mind on occasions. Then, of course, there were times like this, when it was so painfully obvious that certain pureblood wizards were complete and totally idiots, when he was almost grateful for his Muggle start. Almost. Not quite. Though he supposed that might have been different, had he not lived with the Dursleys.

"You've never been beaten up, have you Malfoy?" he asked.

Malfoy stopped regarding his hand, and quirked a brow at Harry. "No." he admitted. "I haven't. And if _you_ have, then I sincerely hope that halfwit Creevey was around to take a picture."

Harry shook his head despairingly and scanned the paper for his next question, but Malfoy was apparently unwilling to let the matter drop that easily.

"So go on then," he goaded, obviously delighted with this particular topic. "Who knocked you about, Potter? It can't have happened at Hogwarts - I would've heard about it." Which was perfectly true, Harry supposed. "One of the Weasleys get violent over the summer? If I had to pick one I'd go with one of those twins. Never seemed quite right in the head to me." he contemplated. "Or maybe the daughter, Jenny or whatever her name is. Seems a bit violent if you ask me. Besides, after that Chamber of Secrets incident you never can tell, can you? She could turn into a serial killer at any-"

"Oh shut up, you prat." Harry snapped angrily.

He would have done so much earlier, but he'd been having a great deal of trouble digesting the suggestion that the Weasleys _knocked him about_. Or, indeed, that Ginny Weasley was physically capable of knocking _anyone_ about without the aid of a wand or a large stick of some sort. Despite Harry's interjection, Malfoy went on with his bizarre ponderings, apparently warming to it more and more the longer he went on talking.

"Could've been the mother, I guess. Ever since that Howler in Second Year, I've had my suspicions about her stability, if you know what I mean." Malfoy raised his finger to his temple and twirled it, to indicate insanity.

Harry felt his jaw clench.

Malfoy was looking contemplative. "Of course it wouldn't have to be the Weasleys… God knows, you associate with enough lunatics." he paused. "Was it the werewolf?" he asked after a moment. "Did he get violent with you when you were presenting him with his novelty, _Teacher of the Year_ mug?" Malfoy raised his eyebrows sarcastically.

It was a gesture that infuriated Harry while simultaneously reminding him, in a general sort of way, of Fred Weasley. Not that he'd ever admit that, mind you. Instead he found himself subconsciously reaching for his wand. Not that he would ever use his wand, he assured himself; he was just looking for the comfort it provided.

"Or," Malfoy continued rancorously. "Maybe it was that demented Godfather of yours. A dozen years in Azkaban can't be good for your-" Malfoy caught sight of Harry's expression.

Judging by his suddenly wide eyes and nervous throat-clearing, Harry concluded that he must look fairly livid. A reaction which Harry considered perfectly reasonable, considering the fact that his loathed

Malfoy cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. "So, uh, what was your answer?" he asked in a tone that was verging on polite, but could be more accurately described as _brisk_.

Following his counterpart's business-like manner, Harry turned back to the papers in his hands, sat straight in his chair and attempted to behave as though nothing at all had occurred. "I answered yes." he said shortly. "For a different reason."

He did not elaborate, and instead began skimming over the next ten questions for his next selection.

Malfoy accepted his silence on the matter, acknowledging him with only a small "mmm" noise.

For some reason, Harry found the oppressive, awkward silence even more uncomfortable than the overtly hostile atmosphere that had existed before. He supposed that, now he was working alongside Malfoy rather than against him, he felt some vague guilt that they had nearly come to blows.

As soon as he identified this feeling, Harry quelled it as soon as possible and with remarkable ease. It was _Malfoy_ after all, and any feelings of ignominy he may had felt could be easily countered by this fact.

"Question Forty-Nine." Harry read out, after a few moments' deliberation. "Do you think you would enjoy attending another (non-fictional) school more than you enjoy attending Hogwarts? If yes, please elaborate." Harry turned his head slightly to look at Malfoy, who was staring resolutely at his paper. "What did you put?" he asked rather superfluously, as he already knew precisely what Malfoy's response was, but that was hardly the point.

"No. This is the best school of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world." Malfoy said simply. "Which," he continued, "Is quite worrying, when you think of all the other poor sods being educated around the planet."

Harry distinctly saw Malfoy's gaze flicker over to where Hagrid usually sat, but he chose not to comment on it. "I had more or less the same answer and reasoning." he said. "Your turn to pick a number."

"_More or less_?" Malfoy repeated curiously. "What was your reasoning?"

Harry shrugged, and requested Malfoy's chosen number again. Mainly because he flatly refused to tell Malfoy that the reason he would never be as happy at another school as he was at Hogwarts, was that no other school had Albus Dumbledore. Or, indeed, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Or even Professor McGonagall, who he'd been strangely fond of and terrified of ever since his first year.

Malfoy kept on sending him slightly suspicious looks, but once again he didn't question Harry too much. "Fifty-four." he decided, apparently randomly.

"If you had your choice of all magical creatures (As defined by the latest edition of 'Fantastic Beast and Where To Find Them, by Newt Scamander), which would you choose?" Harry dutifully recited. He didn't actually remember Malfoy's response to that one, and looked over to him with vague interest.

Malfoy was shuffling through his papers, apparently trying to find that particular sheet. Sleep deprivation obviously did not agree with Malfoy, since less than an hour previously he had been able to recite both his paper and Harry's paper with very little prompting.

"Runespoor." he announced at last, holding the answer page up like it was the Holy Grail.

Harry racked his brains to remember what the heck a Runespoor was. His mental image of his _Fantastic Beast etc._ textbook seemed to be stuck on the first page where he and Ron had played hangman. His couldn't for the life of him have told you what a Runespoor was. Fortunately, Malfoy's insatiable urge to talk saved them once again.

"I'm surprised you didn't pick that, Potter. What with being a Parselmouth and all." he commented, with only the barest hint of mocking in his tone.

Harry skimmed through all the snake-like creatures in _Fantastic Beasts_. Since he was absolutely positive that Runespoor was not a pet name for Basilisk, he decided that it must be that three-headed, bright orange snake that Dark Wizards used to keep. He could've rolled his eyes at Malfoy's choice.

"I'm a Parselmouth, not an idiot." he said scathingly. "You just want one because it would improve your image." he accused.

Malfoy adopted a sanctimonious expression. "I'll have you know, Potter, that I am fascinated by the creature itself. For example, it has three mouths and only one stomach - how does it decide which mouth gets to eat? Also, what happens when two of them are awake but the third one isn't? Do they have to wake it up before they can go anywhere?" he wondered aloud.

Harry frowned for a moment as he considered Malfoy's words. He had a point, Harry admitted to himself. In fact, he was very nearly on the verge of marching down to Hagrid's cabin and demanding answers when Malfoy added, "Besides, do you know how rare they are? You'd probably end up in the daily Prophet if you had one!"

Harry couldn't quite suppress an eye roll. "I see." he said, deliberately attempting a McGonagall impression. "Fascinating as that is, Malfoy, I think we can safely say my reason were different."

It was Malfoy's turn to roll his eyes. "Oh, yes, of course. Your and your_ Phoenix_." Malfoy said with disgust. "No point asking why you'd want one of those, is there? With Dumbledore's dratted songbird, and you with your mini-Dumbledore complex."

Harry remembered reading that the song of the Phoenix gave strength and hope to those of pure heart, while striking fear in the impure. Malfoy's description of Fawkes as a "dratted songbird" confirmed Harry's long-standing suspicions, with regards to Draco Malfoy being a soulless, scheming little git. He was polite enough not to comment, however. "Actually," he said, in the same holier-than-thou tone that Hermione used when correcting Umbridge. "I think Phoenixes are great companions."

Malfoy snorted disbelievingly. Harry concluded that it was not worth his time pressing the matter.

As a matter of fact, Harry decided that a lot in the fifteen minutes that followed. More worryingly, he also got the impression that Malfoy was doing the same.

For example, when Harry explained he would rather wear shoes than go barefoot (Question Sixty-Two was - "When home alone, do you prefer shoes, socks, slippers, or bare feet?"), simply because it saved him the hassle of putting them on again when he had to rush off somewhere, Malfoy wore an expression which suggested that he was being forced to swallow an entire bottle of Skele-Grow. This was despite the fact that Malfoy, too, would rather wear shoes. His reasoning, however, was that anything else would look scruffy if unexpected company arrived - logic which baffled Harry, since surely anyone who walked in on you when you were in private would expect you to look scruffy?

Then, of course, there was the matter of their Favourite Annual Celebration (Question Seventy-Three). Both had agreed it was Halloween, but both had also agreed that the other's reasoning was ridiculous. Harry's reason was simply that Christmas had been somewhat tarnished in his mind by Mr. Weasley's attack and his less-than-enjoyable time in the Closed Ward; Halloween was his second favourite. A fact which Malfoy simply could not understand, as he repeatedly said "But your parents snuffed it on Halloween!"

Meanwhile, Harry could not understand Malfoy's fondness for the holiday. Apparently Lucius Malfoy had held a celebration for selected guests at his house every Halloween since his son was a year old, leading Malfoy to be quite enamoured with the occasion. Harry's repeated observations that they were probably all Death Eaters who just sat around bemoaning the Dark Lord's demise on that date X-amount of years ago, fell on deaf ears.

Both had been forced to give up and move on.

Question number Eighty-One was the first one that both boys agreed upon wholeheartedly. "Are you meticulous about broom maintenance?" Harry had read aloud.

Harry had not even had time to glance at his own vehement 'Yes', before Malfoy was launching into a heart-felt rant about people who were not meticulous about broom maintenance, denouncing them as philistines and idiots.

When Harry found himself joining in, both of them agreed to hurry onto the next question and never speak of it again. They probably would've done just that, if Cecil Crypture had not emitted a particularly loud snore at that very moment.

Harry, who had forgotten he was even there, jumped slightly at the noise. When he looked over to the Ravenclaw table, he saw the Ministry worker sitting with one side of his face firmly stuck to the table and a small pool of drool forming under his mouth. Harry grimaced and turned away.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was staring at the aforementioned drool with a kind of paralysed horror. "Good God," he exclaimed after a moment; a moment apparently spent waiting for the next globule to hit the table. "People have to eat at that table!"

Harry felt quite certain that the House Elves would give the Great Hall a once over before allowing people to eat at any of the tables, particularly since they had not yet been allowed in there due to Harry and Malfoy's continued presence. He did not mention this, however, as it might have calmed Malfoy down. It was not something Harry was prepared to risk.

"Are you going to pick a number, Malfoy, or just watch Crypture snore?" he asked sarcastically, enjoying Malfoy's look of horror a tad more than he should've.

Malfoy sent another revolted look at the Ministry worker and turned back to his papers. "Er, Ninety-nine." he said at last.

Harry looked down the page. "Do you think you'd be a good salesman?" he read. He glanced over at Malfoy, expecting him to share his answer.

Malfoy was, however, otherwise engaged. He was once again staring at Cypture with such aversion that he was physically shuddering every time the man inhaled.

"Malfoy?" Harry prompted, not particularly wanting to explain to Dumbledore that Malfoy had snapped and smothered their Ministry quiz-master with a conjured pillow. "We both answered no." he said loudly.

Malfoy blinked two or three times before looking back at Harry. "Oh. Right." he said distractedly. He shook his head like a wet dog, and looked down at the papers. "Sorry, what question did I say again?"

Harry told him, and asked his reasoning. In his mind, he was wondering what possible upbringing could lead to someone being that horrified by someone snoring and drooling in their sleep. True, Harry himself was more than a little put-off by the display, but he was still capable of functioning. Also niggling at his curiosity was the fact that Draco Malfoy slept in the same dormitory as Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle: If he was not yet desensitised to dribbling, wheezing lumps of flesh, then Harry was forced to wonder just how the Slytherin Dormitories were laid out.

"I said no." Malfoy announced.

A sigh escaped Harry's lips. "Ye-es." he said with as much patience as he could muster. "But why?"

"Because," he said dismissively. "It's such a plebeian sort of job, isn't it? No reason to ask why you'd be useless at it, of course." he went on scornfully. "The second anyone asked you if there was anything wrong with something in your shop, you'd tell them every single thing that was wrong with it and might go wrong with it in the future." Malfoy rolled his eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time that evening.

Harry said nothing in response; mainly because Malfoy's assessment of his answer and the reasoning behind his actual answer were somewhat similar. Instead he said in his firmest tone, "Question One-Hundred-and-Eight," He checked his paper. "Is there any item currently in your possession which you know you should throw away but don't?"

Silently, Harry cursed himself for picking that question as his thoughts lingered on the mirror in his trunk that Sirius had given him over Christmas. As he tried to think up a believable lie, he shot Malfoy a quick look.

Malfoy himself appeared to be doing some quick thinking.

An idea struck Harry. "I said yes," he told Malfoy carefully. "And I keep it for- _Sentimental Reasons_."

Malfoy looked momentarily grateful. Not at Harry, or anything, just generally grateful. "Yes," he said with a nod. "Yes, me too."

Nothing more was said on the matter.

Though he couldn't deny being interested in Malfoy's undisclosed sentimental object, Harry was more than willing to forget about the question for evermore if it meant that he would not be required to discuss Sirius with him. Harry briefly considered what Malfoy would be so reluctant to talk about. Then he realised that, for most people, items of sentimental value had to do with their families. And even Harry had to admit that he would be extremely acerbic about anything even vaguely related to Malfoy's family, no matter how ardently Malfoy himself may have felt about it.

Harry moved on. "Pick a number." he instructed.

"One-hundred-and-sixteen." Malfoy said.

Upon seeing what question one-hundred-and-sixteen was, Harry could not suppress a grin. "Do you feel hostile to any particular Hogwarts House?" he read out. "If yes, which House?"

Even Malfoy, whose humour had been grievously injured by Mr. Crypture's unfortunate behaviour while unconscious, snorted with laughter. Shockingly enough, he answered in the affirmative, specifying Gryffindor House in particular as the source of his antipathy.

"So why is that?" Harry asked, fully expecting some poppycock about half-breeds and mud-bloods.

"Because," Malfoy said, as though it were almost self-explanatory. "You're all sanctimonious, self-important, idiots who act morally superior to just about everyone."

Harry stared at him for a moment, surprised at the simplicity of the statement. Could it be? Was it really possible that Draco Malfoy was not simply a bigoted idiot who disliked any House that might admit a muggle-born? Could he simply _dislike_ Gryffindor House? Just as Harry was beginning to have hope for the Pureblood wizards everywhere, Malfoy added "Besides, you're all crossbred nutcases anyway."

A few minutes later, when Harry had finished his diatribe decrying all of Slytherin House as a bunch of lying, scheming crooks, Malfoy commented acerbically "So, different answers; different reasons then?"

Harry glared. "It would seem so," he agreed.

"Right then," Malfoy said cheerfully. "Next question?"

Harry nearly growled.

Question number one-hundred-and-twenty-five, "Would you ever keep a diary?", turned out to be another point of contention between the two, despite both responding negatively. Harry because he was of the opinion that only sociopath and POWs kept diaries - The former for their own, personal glorification and the latter purely to cope. Malfoy took a different approach, and wondered what would happen should someone ever read his diary. Harry's thoughts on the matter ("Who would want to?") were ill-received.

"One-hundred-and-thirty-five!" he hissed, after Harry had commented that written accounts of a tryst with Pansy Parkinson were hardly likely to top the best-seller list.

Harry docilely searched out question one-hundred-and-thirty-five. He could afford to be docile, because a muscle in Malfoy's jaw was twitching. "Do you have any unreasonable phobias?" he quoted.

"No." Malfoy responded instantly.

Taking a bit more time, just because he could, Harry looked over his answer paper. "Me neither. Why don't you?"

Malfoy got a superior look. "No one in my family is ever unreasonable." he proclaimed in an nauseatingly pretentious way.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Hang on. Isn't Bellatrix Lestrange your Aunt or something?" he pointed out.

Malfoy looked temporarily crestfallen before he once again adopted a haughty expression. "No one in my _immediate _family is ever unreasonable." he corrected himself. "Anyway, why don't you?" he asked Harry, apparently aware that he was treading on thin ice.

Though he would have dearly loved to prove that the Malfoys were all a bunch of maniacs, Harry was painfully aware that they were on the second to last question. He was also aware that, so far, his theory had pretty much been supported. He was not about to draw an argument out now.

"I said no. I don't think there's such a thing as an unreasonable phobia. Every phobia has a reason behind it," he declared, expecting to move on fairly quickly.

Apparently Malfoy felt differently. "I beg your pardon?" he said incredulously.

Harry repeated himself, assuming that the Slytherin halfwit hadn't heard him. However it became clear that this was not the problem.

"Listen here, Potter, there are some perfectly unreasonable phobias. Daphne Greengrass, for example-"

"Who?" Harry asked, not having the faintest idea who Daphne Greengrass was, or even if that was a real name.

Judging by Malfoy's affronted look it was, indeed, a real name. "Daphne Greengrass." he repeated. "Slytherin. Fifth year. Long, kind of chestnut coloured hair. Blue eyes. Shorter than either of us. Always has her head stuck in some book or another."

Harry tried desperately to remember someone in Slytherin House fitting that description, but found himself coming up quite at a loss. In fact the only person he could think of who even vaguely matched Malfoy's account was a girl he'd bumped into in a hallway a few days earlier. He'd assumed her to be a muggle-born Ravenclaw, as he'd picked up her copy of The Count of Monte Cristo for her just a short way away from where Cho had indicated Ravenclaw Tower was. Apparently he was wrong. "Oh, her," he said. "I didn't realise she was in Slytherin."

Malfoy sniffed. "Well, she is," he said. "And she is deathly afraid of things that flutter."

Harry shot Malfoy a confused look.

He shrugged. "I swear to God - Things that Flutter. Butterflies, fairies, moths; anything fluttery and she goes mental. Now are you telling me that you consider this reasonable behaviour?" he asked.

"No." Harry admitted. Before Malfoy had a chance to look satisfied, he continued, "But it's obviously reasonable to her."

Malfoy clearly didn't agree, but he continued on regardless. "All right, what about Blaise Zabini? He was afraid of Moody's eye!" he announced, clearly thinking that he had just won the argument.

"So was I," Harry said simply. "The thing was just creepy."

They continued in this manner for a few minutes, with Malfoy pointing out the 'unreasonable' fears of his peers (Including clowns, heights, priests, Muggles, ticking-clocks and jam doughnuts) while Harry agreed with or accepted them all, without blinking an eye.

Eventually, he got the other boy to shut up by saying "Look Malfoy, do you really want to be stuck here all night, listing the aversions of every Slytherin under the sun while Crypture is over there snoring and dribbling, and we both become more and more exhausted, or do you want to get a move on?"

Malfoy honestly seemed to think about it for a moment.

While he was doing so, Harry picked a number. "Question one-hundred-and-forty-seven." he said.

"I hadn't decided yet." Malfoy muttered, without much force. If the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by, he couldn't have said it with much force even if he wanted to.

Harry sent Malfoy the most withering glare he could conjure up. It had very little effect of the knackered boy, but it didn't really matter. "Question one-hundred-and-forty-seven," he repeated. "Do you consider yourself a trusting person?"

"Nope." Malfoy said, while stifling a yawn.

Harry asked why.

"Common sense," he responded. "You?"

"Experience." Harry said bitterly. Or at least he was aiming for bitter. He may have just sounded uninterested, which was precisely what he was at that point. He began gathering up his various papers and attempting to re-organise them. The largely uneaten tray of food lay further down the table, making Harry wonder for a moment if he should take it down to the kitchens or not. He decided against it, when he tried to imagine any of the House Elves letting the Great Hall go without being tidied before Breakfast the following day. "Right then," he said once his papers were in order. "We're done. And we are completely different."

Malfoy looked over hopefully. "We are?" he asked.

"We are." Harry confirmed.

"Nothing in common?"

"Less than most people, at any rate."

"Thank God." Malfoy said with great satisfaction as he, too, started to arrange his assorted papers into order.

As both of them were busy congratulating themselves on their utter dissimilarity, Cecil Crypture let out a particularly loud snort. So loud, in fact, that it even woke him up albeit for a few shorts seconds. He jerked awake and then instantly settled in again, smacking his lips together wetly.

Harry narrowed his eyes. On his left, he was fairly certain Malfoy had done the same.

There was a moment's seething silence before either of them spoke. "Oh, Potter?" Malfoy said.

"Mm?" Harry asked, not taking his eyes off Crypture, the man who had landed him in there in the first place.

"Would you mind if we took care of something before we go?"

Harry smirked.


End file.
